


all the words we don't know

by lethandralis



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Domesticity, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, i'm a parody of myself, mentions of past trauma, oh no they have to share a bed... gasp...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethandralis/pseuds/lethandralis
Summary: the roof of alistair's cabin is leaking.
Relationships: Sir Hammerlock/Wainwright Jakobs
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	all the words we don't know

The roof of Alistair’s cabin is leaking.

The roof has been leaking a great deal, lately, and it’s probably exacerbated by the fact that it’s the rainy season on Eden-6. (Not that there’s ever _not_ a rainy season – it’s just “rainy” and “somewhat less rainy”). Who knows who built this thing; Alistair found it abandoned when he came here about a year ago.

So Wainwright, naturally, is posted up with every cooking pan, bucket, and large bowl Alistair owns, trying to catch all the leaks. It’s not working.

Alistair adjusts a bucket with his foot. It’s past midnight. He looks exhausted.

“Thank you, Wainwright,” he says. “If nothing else, I have a tent around here somewhere…”

Wainwright puts his bowl down on the bed, which in return makes an uncomfortable squelching sound. “Nonsense. Come stay the night.”

Alistair squints at him. “You’re serious?”

Wainwright nods. “Of course. I got the whole wing to myself. Long as you don’t mind borrowing some pajamas.”

“I would honestly love to sleep in dry clothes for once this week. Let me… let me get a few things together, alright? I’ll only be a few.”

Wainwright sets about nervously adjusting buckets. The last time Wainwright had someone else in his bed was… well. It was long enough ago that he can’t quite remember if it was even the same mattress.

Alistair has a pack gathered within five minutes or so. He slings it over his shoulder and smiles softly.

“Shall we be going? Unless you’d like to spend more time scooting buckets around.”

“Nah, let’s get outta here. I think you’re startin’ to prune up.”

The ride to Jakobs Manor is… wet. And muddy. But somehow it’s better with Alistair there, humming a tune as they navigate the jungle. Thunder starts cracking a few minutes after they pull into the gates. Good timing.

They hang Alistair’s clothes in the bathtub after he’s cleaned up and warm. He spends an entire fifteen minutes fussing over his hat – water, as it turns out, is bad for the shaping. He finds a way to prop it up over a lamp so that hopefully it’ll dry alright.

Wainwright jokes that he’s never been able to fit a hat over his hair, and Alistair kisses him in a way that sends butterflies swarming in his stomach. It might just be the time of night, though. He’s a little loopy with exhaustion.

They get into their pajamas – wow, Alistair looks a really special kind of good in Wainwright’s old company conference promotional shirt and his boxers, hot damn. Wainwright fidgets with his hands. It’s nearing two in the morning.

“So, I got painkillers an’ whatnot in the top drawer,” he says, hearing his words slur together just a bit. “Extra blankets in the box under the bed. Lemme just get my pillow an’ I’ll be off to the couch in the other room.”

Alistair shoots him a look. “Nonsense. This is a rather large bed. Come along, it’s late enough.”

“I don’t—I figured you’d want some sleep. Don’t wanna intrude.” He’s clutching his bathrobe in his hand like a lifeline.

Alistair stares at him, completely deadpan. “We have had sex, Wainwright. In this bed.” He gestures at it emphatically. “If anything, I am the one intruding; in your home, in your clothing, in your bedroom, at a simply horrific hour.” He takes a breath. “If you’re uncomfortable, of course, _I’ll_ sleep in the other room. But I think I quite like the idea of sleeping in your bed. You’re very warm.”

Wainwright knows. The thought sticks in his head. It was really, really fantastic sex. But it’d been in the middle of the day, and they’d meandered back to Alistair’s place for seconds afterwards. (And then Wainwright had come home in the middle of the night and stared at his ceiling for several hours in complete silence.)

Alistair’s soft smile and the light around his face break Wainwright’s nerves. He gives Alistair a quick peck. “Alright, alright, you got me. But I snore. Ain’t my fault if you don’t sleep a wink.”

“I’ve slept through an earthquake. I think I’ll be quite alright, thank you.”

Wainwright cocks his head in confusion before making Alistair promise he’ll tell that story come morning.

The lights go off. Wainwright stares at the ceiling some more. Alistair’s got his prostheses off, and he’s soft and warm draped over Wainwright’s chest. A comforting sort of weight. Something he could get used to, maybe. His breathing slows down within about ten minutes.

 _Go to sleep, you idiot_ , thinks Wainwright, and he’s out soon after.

* * *

Morning comes. Wainwright’s already up and out of bed by the time Alistair stirs. He’d awoken sometime around sunrise, groggy and confused at the mass under the blankets at the other side of the bed. And then his brain had gone into a tailspin.

After about twenty minutes of anxiety, he’d settled on a shower. And getting Alistair’s soaked clothes clean. And coffee. In that order.

With those things done, and a spare bathrobe dug out from his closet and resting carefully on the dresser, Wainwright went off to the kitchen. _Coffee. Food. Shit. What food does Alistair like?_

After a half-hour of dithering and two cups of coffee, there’s shuffling from the hallway. Alistair comes up behind him and puts his hands around his waist. Plush lips find his neck. He’s warm and soft and incredibly startling.

Wainwright freezes. Alistair pulls away.

“I’m sorry, are you alright? Did I do something wrong?” Alistair sounds worried. Panicked.

“No- I. That’s real nice. I just. I’m sorry.” He sighs, spinning around to face Alistair. “It’s been a long, long time since I had somebody. And he weren’t anything like you. I ain’t used to this…” he waves his hand vaguely. “Nice stuff. Affection.”

Alistair cradles his jaw in one hand. It feels so, so nice. “We take this as fast or as slow as you like, alright? I don’t want to do anything to hurt you.” Wainwright puts his hand over Alistair’s, leaning into the touch. He could melt into a puddle, right here in his kitchen. “I’m quite fond of you, you know.”

Wainwright imagines he must look about like a freshly tanned hide, because his face goes hot instantaneously. “Yeah, uh. I really. I’m real fond of you, too.”

Alistair must find his stammering charming, or at least takes pity, because he leans in for a kiss. Not that that calms Wainwright’s brain – it just sends it careening further off the tracks. _How in the name of everything holy is he so calm?_ Alistair’s lips are a little chapped, and Wainwright’s are clumsy from lack of practice, but it’s still nice. Wainwright’s stomach starts growling, though, so they figure it’s time to get on with the day.

They eat a simple breakfast while Alistair’s clothes dry. The rain is still coming down in sheets – forecasts estimate it’ll be a few days before the storm lets up. Alistair looks through weather reports on his ECHO and grumbles. Something about structural integrity and research documents. Wainwright’s too busy trying to figure out if there’s any clothes in Alistair’s size lying around that he can spare.

“I suppose I should be going,” starts Alistair after they’re finished eating, pushing away from the table. “Thank you for your hospitality, Wainwright.”

Wainwright jumps a bit. “Hey. Uh-uh. It’s comin’ down in buckets out there. Stay here. My father’s out for the week, we ain’t even gotta worry about him.” He stands and approaches the other man, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I ain’t about to have you catch your death’a cold out there.”

“Actually, the common cold has nothing to do with c—”

“For god’s sake, Alistair.”

Alistair laughs. It’s a really fantastic laugh. “Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me. What can I do to repay your kindness?”

Wainwright furrows his brow. “Absolutely nothing. It’s just the right thing to do. And it’s not as if I dislike your company or somethin’. Quite the opposite, really, heh.”

“I would certainly hope so!” says Alistair, and he’s smiling so big it’s wrinkling the bridge of his nose. “I’d hoped our rendezvous a few weeks ago wasn’t a one-off sort of thing.”

“I—yeah. I hope so, too. I mean- yes. I wanna have sex with you more.” _Fucking hell, Wainwright, get it together._

Alistair’s laughing, and it’s not a mean sort of laugh. It’s full of light and joy. A really lovely, resonant sound. “Thank you. I’m so glad we’re on the same page.”

Wainwright starts laughing too, despite himself. His chest feels light. Like he’s full of helium.

He could really get used to this.

* * *

It takes a week and a half for the rain to let up. Wainwright doesn’t feel comfortable letting Alistair out, considering the weather, but Alistair doesn’t seem to mind staying. Most of the time, he’s settled in with a book and a cup of tea in an alcove, studying the history of Eden-6 while Wainwright works. There’s a great deal of study material just lying around the Jakobs Estate, as it turns out. Enough to keep him busy for months.

It’s the longest uninterrupted span of time they’ve spent together in the year they’ve been acquainted, and it feels strangely natural to Wainwright. Like he’s been doing this for years. They’ve stayed over at each-other’s homes once or twice, but it’d been brief, and usually filled with alcohol. This feels different – waking up to Alistair with his glasses off, snoring quietly, sets something alight deep within Wainwright’s ribcage that he can’t necessarily identify.

In the evenings, they retire to someplace together, to drink and watch the rain come down. And to talk.

They talk about a lot of things. About their pasts, about the life of adventuring and scientific study that brought Alistair to the Eden system. About Wainwright’s life as the somewhat-shunned heir apparent to a gigantic weapons manufacturer.

It’s nice to just talk. They both have decades worth of stories, and as the nights wear on they lose their inhibitions about telling them. On the fourth night, the topic meanders to past relationships.

“So, darling, who else has had the pleasure of having you?” asks Alistair, absently swishing his scotch around in his glass. He’s got his legs draped over Wainwright’s lap, and Wainwright is rubbing circles with his thumb in the meat of his calf.

Wainwright chuckles bashfully. “Oh, god. Uh…three folks.” He coughs that figure up just a little too quickly. Shame squirms into his chest. “I dated this girl named Abigail when I was real young, maybe twenty or so. Turns out I just… well, you know, I don’t much swing that way. She runs a bakery down in Reliance, now. Real sweet gal. No hard feelings, and she makes the best beignets in the system.”

He takes a sip of his scotch. They’ve been drinking for long enough that it doesn’t really burn anymore, just leaves a long trail of warmth down into his gut. “Fooled around with a few men in my twenties an’ thirties. Nothin’ real serious, just flings here and there. Lotta people were after the money, as it turns out.” He scowls at his glass for a moment, inspecting the intricate patterns of cracks in the ice. “I don’t play that way. But I found someone, name of Charles. We hit it off after I met him at a company function. He worked for a supplier, so we had’t keep it on the down-low. Conflict of interest an’ all. Lasted about three years, and then he was moved out-of-system for work and we just… fell apart. You know how it goes.”

Alistair nods at him. “And number three?” His tone is soft. Not pushing.

“Bennett. Met when I was forty-two. He was every inch the perfect man, y’know? Strapping, athletic, brazen.” He chuckles a bit. “Took him about two years to turn into an asshole. Ended in a knock-down, drag-out fight. Broke a bottle over his head and I ain’t seen him since.”

The room is quiet for a moment. Uncharacteristic of Alistair, really. He’s just sitting there, watching Wainwright with this expression of… softness? Kindness? Maybe pity.

“An’ that’s… really been it,” he says, feeling the need to put a cap on things. “After Bennett, I got caught up in work. Not that I was, y’know, eager to get back into the datin’ scene.”

“That makes sense. I—I’m terribly sorry, darling.” Alistair sounds so, so genuine. It makes Wainwright’s chest ache. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories. I was curious because you seem so… what’s the word I’m looking for. Cautious? With matters of the heart.”

Wainwright looks over at him with a smile. “It’s alright. You’re just… I dunno, you’re real easy to like. Lookin’ back, I dunno how I could’ve _not_ fallen for you.” His face is fever-hot down to his collarbones. “Thanks for bein’… delicate with my dirty laundry. I’m tryin’ real hard to not be skittish, but it’s been so long. And I ain’t never found anybody quite like you, Alistair. I really haven’t.”

“Wainwright, sweetheart, it’s the least I can do. Really. All of us have our baggage. And you’re – how did you say it? Very easy to like? I think the same of you. Sort of irresistible, really. I refuse to do anything that would hurt you, if I can avoid it.”

Alistair is looking at him with this look… adoration and warmth and kindness and bald sincerity, in the warm curves and hollows of his face. Wainwright can’t resist it – he puts his glass down on the end table and kisses Alistair, cradling his jaw in both of his hands. Like a piece of fine china. Gorgeous, one-of-a-kind, and so, so precious.

* * *

After eleven days elapses, Alistair has well and truly run out of clean clothes, so they decide to make the trip out to the cabin to see if everything’s alright. He looks a little ridiculous in Wainwright’s rain jacket – Wainwright is a much stockier man. But it’s charming. Cute, even.

They arrive back at Alistair’s cabin during a lull in the rainstorm to find the roof caved in. Alistair doesn’t scream or cry, just stands there with his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. The line of his shoulders is drawn-up and tense. Wainwright hops down out of the technical and walks up.

“Well, this is just excellent,” says Alistair. “I just bought that mattress. And my _books_. Oh, hell.”

Wainwright puts his hand on the center of Alistair’s back. He swallows down his anxiety for just the briefest second. “I got plenty of mattresses. I recall you sayin’ you like mine okay, yeah?”

Alistair shoots him an incredulous look. “Keep your mattress. I can repair this. I repaired a great number of buildings when I lived on Liar’s Berg. Granted, there wasn’t a constant rainstorm there… Or saurians.” He doesn’t sound as hopeful and bombastic as his words lead on. He sounds sort of hollow.

“No, Alistair, I mean move in with me.” Wainwright’s entire chest goes alight with worry, but he keeps going anyway. “I don’t mean to take things too fast, but I don’t like the thought of you gettin’ soaked out here every night.” He leans in, giving Alistair a kiss on the cheekbone. “I’m pretty fond’a you, you know. Fond’a you stayin’ alive, too.”

Alisair’s eyes are wide when he meets Wainwright’s gaze. “You’re certain? I won’t… darling, I have quite a lot of junk in here. Research materials and manuscripts and hunting supplies… You’re sure that won’t be burdensome to you?”

Wainwright shakes his head. “When last I checked, the manor’s a good… oh, ten thousand square feet or so. Give or take. Half the rooms’re empty, anyhow. Lotta the family moved out when my mama passed. We got plenty of room.” He smiles. “Besides, it’d be a real treat to wake up next to you every morning.”

Alistair’s smile starts small, then spreads across his entire face, and then he’s hugging Wainwright with such bone-crushing force that Wainwright goes into a coughing fit.

“Metal arm, sweetheart- metal arm!” he manages, weakly, into Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair lets up just enough to let Wainwright breathe, but he doesn’t let go for what feels like ages. Wainwright can feel the rainwater soaking into his jacket. He doesn’t care.

When Alistair lets go, he gives Wainwright a bracing kiss. It sends his heart fluttering hard against his ribs. He imagines his smile must be syrupy and ridiculous when they part.

“Well, we should get packing,” he says, not letting go of his grip on Alistair’s hips.

“I suppose, love.” The use of that word makes Wainwright’s heart beat faster, but he doesn’t mention it. Another time, maybe.

For now, they get to grabbing what they can of Alistair’s things and shoving them in the back of the technical. It’s surprisingly easy to get some of the roof pieces off – it appears that they rotted through some time ago and were just waiting for the right amount of weight to collapse. Alistair’s favorite hunting rifle is waterlogged, though, as are many of the field journals from his travels. They do manage to salvage a small box of keepsakes (locked), most of Alistair’s clothing, his current field journal, and other important bits and bobs.

When they leave, the technical is filled to bursting. It takes a few hours to move everything in, and to get the things drying that need to be dried. By the end of it, they’re both exhausted, and they change into dry clothes and collapse on the bed together. There’s silence for a while, and then Alistair rolls over.

“Winny?” he asks. The nickname sounds so nice in Alistair’s mouth.

“Mm?”

“I love you,” he says. It punches Wainwright in the gut. He rolls over to face him, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry if that’s premature, but… Winny, darling, you really are something else. Your kindness and generosity never ceases to astound me.” He takes Wainwright’s hand in his own, kissing his knuckles gently. “Thank you. For everything.”

Wainwright doesn’t know what else to do but laugh. His eyes feel wet. He knocks his forehead against Alistair’s clumsily.

“I love you, too,” he manages, after a moment. “I was worried… I thought you weren’t on the same page.” He grabs his hand back, wrapping Alistair’s hand in both of his own. “I love you, Alistair.”

“I hope you know that now you’re unlikely to be rid of me anytime soon,” quips Alistair, grinning. “Today was your last chance, actually. I sleep in your bed now.” He says it with this ridiculous air of foreboding that makes Wainwright chuckle.

“Why the hell would I wanna do that? God, Alistair, I’m so excited.” He sighs for a second, taking it all in. The softness of Alistair’s face, laying on his bed – no, their bed. The safety and comfort and familiarity of it all.

“Thank you,” he says. “For bein’ the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was fun to write! i love these idiots!!  
> title of this fic is stolen from [fred astaire by jukebox the ghost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd345a2eAfU), which is just an unfairly cute song.  
> come be friends on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ceruleanspruce) if you want


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